


High Enough

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drug Mentions, F/F, Implied Oral Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sex, booze, more an exploration of vice, not really about alcoholism, please let me know if i missed an important one here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: The life they lead offers many ways to lose themselves: Violence and brutality. Covers and lies.The city offers other ways to anesthetize: pills and powders and joints, liquid peace at the end of a needle.They have no need of the offering–
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	High Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roadhymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadhymns/gifts).



> Merry Christmas roadhymns! I hope this little ficlet is to your liking and that you are having a wonderful holiday. Christmas cookies are definitely a vice of mine.

Once she craved vodka in the emptiness hours. Used the clear strident sting to numb her anxiety, to dull her hyperactive senses. Now, instead, she craves the tang of clean sweat she finds beneath the crook of Illya’s jaw. 

On the brutal days she would hurry home to a full glass of gin — the juniper-bright bite on the back of her tongue to shut out the chaos. Now, as the daylight fades from the city’s skyline, she rushes home to lick the smoky scent from the curve at the base of his spine.

When sleep was short but the night was long, it was whiskey that kept her company. The endless hours soothed by the caramelized fire sitting warm in her belly. Now, they are alight with the honeyed heat of Illya’s mouth between her thighs.

Once music was an opiate of choice. Dancing until she’d gone numb. Now she moves her body to the rhythm of Illya’s hips, entranced by the lyrical sounds of passion she draws from his lips and finds an unprecedented harmony in the places they touch. A hum that resonates deep — down to dark places she thought forever silent.

She has always chafed at any outward control. A lifted chin and narrowed eyes. The secret fear of cold steel binding her in the dark. Now she shudders in pleasure as his cool fingers shackle her wrists. 

She fled the cage of East Berlin, the Iron Curtain. Barricades of stone and wire and The Wall of concrete sealing her in like a tomb. Now she rushes into the enclosure of Illya’s arms, inebriatingly _free_ in the way he holds her so tightly.

Before, any orders would bring out the slice of her tongue, the cut of her wit. Attempts to master her would result only in violent dissent. Now Illya tells her to come and she heeds his command with eager pleasure.

She used to feel nearly empty inside, a hollow echo of an abandoned child cloaked in the form of a woman. Of no value. Not worth keeping. Now, Illya fills her. Not just her body with the breadth of his cock, but her heart with the sweet ache of his love, the unwavering steadfastness of his belief in her. His words of faith and longing fill her soul with the knowledge that she is so much more than _enough_. 

[She is priceless and he is not letting go.]

Illya is a man half starved. So little to spare but he cherishes her. He feeds it to her like hearty bread soaked in sweet, winter wine. She’s never been cherished before. It’s a heady, addictive thing and she longs to feed it back to him until his heart is fat with it.

The working parts of his psyche are clogged with lies and encrusted with unearned shame. His thoughts are blackened, his hopes tainted. They stall and bind and hinder until his mind locks up and there’s nothing left but rage. When it threatens to burn him up, she puts his shaking hands on her skin. Is it the touch or her trust that quiets that thing inside him?

Illya is a man apart. Torn down to his bits and his pieces - put back together _wrong_. Neglected and ill-used. He’s a mess but he’s not broken, and she’s always been good at fixing things. In what solitude they find at the end of each day, she will pull him close and loosen the bound-up gears of his soul with the oil of her conviction. He is more than they made him, greater than their plans. 

[He is worthy and she’s not turning away.]

The life they lead offers many ways to lose themselves: Violence and brutality. Covers and lies.

The city offers other ways to anesthetize: pills and powders and joints, liquid peace at the end of a needle. 

They have no need of the offering– together, they are high enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the K Flay song that inspired it.


End file.
